The Long Game

Bratislava Square, Slovakia 2019

Almost thirty years have passed since the fall of the Berlin Wall. In ancient times Bratislava Square served as a place where the Roman Army would muster its legions in order to suppress the surrounding population, and it’s been a gathering place for the townspeople ever since. Occasionally it has been noted as an important location in some travel brochures. This notoriety has enabled enterprising tour guides to sidetrack (or deceive) tourist into visiting the local edifices. It’s always been “all about the money.”

Bratislava had changed, but not necessarily for the better. The population composition includes traces of many ethnic sects and religions making it a true melting pot of cultures and prejudices. The people, for the most part, live and work harmoniously, and very few wish to change their complacent existence and fortunes.

The city fathers, in collaboration with sketchy individuals within the National government, are in charge of dispersing funds procured from the population. Not surprisingly, they siphon off the majority of the money which allows for very little to be spent on actual town improvements. The one fly in the ointment is that the studies carried out by the National government predict the probability of total abandonment of the entire city within ten to twenty years. The study’s conclusion was that there was no need to fix anything.

As the light from the town square mixes with the colors of the autumn sunset, a man and woman exit a gray taxi cab. The driver gathers their suitcases from the trunk and places them on the curb. After paying the driver, the man picks up both suitcases and turns his head to see if anyone was observing their arrival. The cab pulls away and they both ascend the shallow white marble steps to enter a once-grand apartment building. The man says to the woman, “How much stuff did you bring? I told you to pack light.” She just pressed on commenting to his remarks in a low voice, “Stop complaining. It’s not my fault your old.”

Even with a babushka and wearing an oversized coat, she looked to be considerably younger; he was 60ish, she maybe 40-45. People sometimes mistook her for a model. The cab driver who took them to the location commented to his friends at the dispatcher’s office that he thought the woman passenger had a strong resemblance to the former First Lady of the United States. He had once seen her on the television, but now she looked somewhat older. The man and women marched up three flights of metal stairs. The old building was a collection of cold-water flats that never had an elevator. The building had withstood the bombings from several conflicts but was now at the point of total disrepair. Upon entering a small room, the woman removed her coat and ordered the man to start preparing for guests. She walked into the bedroom and rummaged through the closet removing a suitcase reminiscent of an American Tourister. It was institutional green in color and had that distinctive click when opened. This evening at the gathering she was determined to ask the tough questions. Questions which no one else dared ask. Questions about, “The Incident.”

An hour after their arrival on the street below, a nondescript man entered the same building carrying a bag of groceries. He set the bag down on the stairs and removed a quart bottle of soda. Making his way up to the third floor he paused, opened the soda and took several gulps. Finished, he looked around to see if there was anyone else on the stairway, then poured the remaining soda on to the landing. He stopped to listen for any conversation, then proceeded to apartment 31A. This was the number written on the inside flap of a book of matches he received earlier that evening. At the door of the apartment, he produced an automatic pistol from under his coat. He then held the empty plastic bottle in front of the barrel of his weapon. It was a quickly fashioned silencer. He now focused his attention at the door, as if waiting for an opportune time to enter, perhaps a signal.